The X-Ray did not Tell the Whole Story
On a cold November morning, I waited in my car in a quiet suburban neighborhood, per the instructions I’d received. Right on time—and right on brand, based on what I’d been told—Charlie came down the steps from his studio barefoot to greet me.
Charlie is a physical therapist, but not in any way I’d ever encountered before. During our first 90-minute session, he spent maybe 15 minutes on physical evaluation. The rest of the time? Asking questions, listening, and doing some teaching. Over the years, Charlie had transformed his practice based on a new understanding of how to treat chronic pain. He used to do what most PTs do: in-person stretching, massage, dry-needling, and assigning those familiar, annoying exercises to do at home. From what I gathered in our conversations, the results were often underwhelming. Some temporary relief—but many clients would end up right back where they started within a few months.
I found myself in his studio after learning a year earlier that I’d need a new hip—sooner rather than later. That hadn’t been on my dance card for my early forties.
Since a prior injury and subsequent imaging that revealed the diagnosis of femoroacetabular impingement, I’d dramatically changed my lifestyle. Biking hurt. Skiing hurt. Squatting at the gym hurt. According to the scans, my right hip was the one with virtually no cartilage left—but oddly, it was my left side that was giving me the most trouble. I assumed, like most people would, that it was compensatory pain from favoring the right side.
I had tried it all:
Stability-focused physical therapy (thanks, Dr. Peter Attia)
A PRP (Platelet-Rich Plasma) injection, preceded by weeks of shockwave and EMTT treatment
Major lifestyle and activity changes (which, if you know me, was a hard pill to swallow)
Every supplement ever rumored to support joint health
I even considered stem cell treatment in Mexico—until I saw the price tag
Surgery felt like the only thing left on the table. But why was I going to cut open my right side to fix the left?
Then someone at the gym mentioned Charlie. He was described as “a little woo-woo,” but by that point, I was at least a little woo-woo curious.
Early in our session, Charlie said something that resonated with my experience:
“There’s nothing structurally wrong with you. Yes, your hips are extremely tight. I could stretch you, massage you, stick needles in you, and give you an hour of exercises to do every day. And maybe you’d feel better for a while. But whatever you’re holding onto—it’s in your hips. Until you address that, nothing will change.”
What if my hip wasn’t the problem, but a symptom?
He told me to start skiing hard again. To get back in the gym. To get back on the bike. The worst thing I could do, he said, was to stop being active. He gave me a few things to read and listen to—ways to better understand how pain works.
And then—no joke—within a week, the worst of my pain on the left side was 70% better.
Fast forward almost a year: I’m back on long bike rides. I’m skiing hard. My mobility is better than it’s been in years. Surgery feels farther away than ever. Yeah, I still ache and hurt sometimes—but, allow me this woo-woo moment—I’ve come to accept it. Not as something broken, but as something that is there and will pass.
And yet, I know I’m still in the early innings of this journey because my mindset towards my pain was one thing. My mindset towards all the stuff that I am holding onto is just getting started.
A loving observation from Eliza, and one that I agree with, recently stuck with me:
“You’re one of the most guarded people I know.”
If pain is a symptom, maybe the armor I wear is the real disease.
And the solution might not be a scalpel—it might be learning how to shed that armor.
(Woo-woo squared)
What is the point of all this? I think it is a simple concept but a hard reality to change. It is something along the lines of:
What are the stories that we tell ourselves everyday?
What are we holding onto or suppressing?
And what impact does that have on our lives?
I told myself, almost daily, that I needed surgery to return to normal. And as a result the pain got worse and worse.
On the flip side, a client recently shared with me that after he began telling friends and colleagues about his aspiration to be seen as an expert in a certain area of his work, everything shifted. His confidence. His results. His approach to challenges. All of it flipped—just from telling a different story.
Stories are powerful. Our minds are incredibly powerful. We can harness them both.
